


Sour and Sweet

by Neurotoxia



Series: Nights of Christmas Past [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Baking with Sherlock & John, Florida, Gen, Homophobia, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When life gave her lemons, Mrs Hudson stuffed them into a delicious chicken. The keeper of England, Sherlock Holmes, and his favourite biscuits doesn't let anybody get her down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sour and Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I have to thank shiningskyline for the Britpick and weeding out grammatical oddities, and penombrelilas for being my consulting beta!
> 
> * * *
> 
> The first scene contains homophobia by Mrs Hudson's husband. Needless to say that his views are not my own.

# 

I.

* * *

Mrs Hudson had thought on her first Christmas in Florida that a December without any snowflakes falling from the sky or at least cold, biting wind was an odd thing. This whole subtropical climate was strange, although it helped with the hip. She had thought then that she would get used to the palm trees and heat. And she did, in summer at least. But Christmas with palm trees and no scarves and gloves was still odd.

She would have liked to go back to England for Christmas and the New Year’s celebrations. Visit the family, see the old country again and check if everything was all right with the house in London. Carl never wanted to though, and always brushed her off. Mrs Hudson didn’t know why he was being so stubborn about it. They could afford it with their pensions and the extra income from renting out the house in London. The house in London Mrs Hudson saw as her triumph -- Carl had wanted to sell it when they had decided to move to America but she had put her foot down. The house in Baker Street had been in her family for generations, she wouldn’t just sell it off. And it could generate a decent income, seeing as it was located as central as you could get in London. They could ask for an outrageous amount of money for rent and still find someone to take it -- but Mrs Hudson didn’t like the thought of bleeding a tenant dry, so she only asked for a reasonable rent, much to her husband’s dismay. Carl was the greedy sort.

“Carl! Dinner is ready!” she called from the kitchen and pulled a stuffed chicken out of the oven.

Carl didn’t talk to her much anymore. He didn’t acknowledge whether he had heard her or not. Mrs Hudson only went by the sound coming from the living room that he was moving from the sofa to the table. Her husband had never been the talkative kind, always been a bit quiet. It had never bothered her before, but for a while now, there was something about his silence she didn’t like. Discontenting, she would call it if she had to name it.

“Chicken?” was the first thing she had heard him say to her all day. The frown that deepened the lines on his face radiated a clear message.

“A turkey just for the two of us would have been silly, dear.” Mrs Hudson smiled and set the chicken down. “If we would go back to England for Christmas, we could have a turkey with the family.”

Carl rolled his eyes. Mrs Hudson was annoyed by that gesture. 

“Oh, will you shut up about that? I have more important places to be than London.”

“Of course you have.” Her tone was cold, but she didn’t want to further the argument. Years ago, Carl would still have apologized for upsetting her. That was another thing he didn’t do anymore.

Mrs Hudson cut up the stuffed chicken and thought it smelled delicious -- she would have to thank her sister for the recipe when she called later. A chicken could become dry so easily, but this one looked juicy and smelled of apples, raisins and chestnuts. The mashed potatoes and the vegetables roasted in red wine would go well with it.

Carl took his plate without a word and began eating before Mrs Hudson had helped herself to a serving. Really, he had better manners than that. She forewent criticising his behaviour -- it would do no good -- and contented herself listening to the news anchor on the television. The young man was in the middle of giving details about the latest murder that had occurred. Work of a serial killer, the police said. Mrs Hudson followed these murders in the papers. She found them dreadful. The victims were always young men, none of them older than 25 and apparently, all of them had been gay. They were strangled and then abandoned in empty warehouses with their chests cut open and their hearts missing.

With the latest victim found today, there was now a total of six. All of them had happened over the last four years. She and Carl had moved here four years ago and while the murders were unsettling, Mrs Hudson wasn’t afraid -- she didn’t fit the potential target profile. She thought she remembered hearing about similar murders back in England, but she wasn’t sure.

“Terrible thing, these murders. The poor boys. They must have suffered...and what their families must go through now.” Mrs Hudson shook her head and tried to picture what a mother must feel when she got the message that her son had fallen victim to a serial killer. On Christmas of all days. 

“Serves those faggots right,” Carl said and if she hadn’t been sitting at the other end of the table, Mrs Hudson would have slapped him in the face. The anger that washed over her was intense -- her insides went from ice cold to burning hot within a matter of moments. It was the kind of anger she rarely ever felt. She knew Carl didn’t approve of homosexuals -- he was conservative to the bone. That’s why they avoided discussing politics, religion or societal issues; their opinions differed too much, they made each other furious. But to hear that he even thought any human being deserved to die that way was outrageous. 

Mrs Hudson had never seen anything wrong with loving someone of their own gender -- a loving relationship between two men or women was just as right as a man and a woman loving each other. Homosexual couples didn’t hurt or inconvenience anybody. It was a shame that she knew many people who didn’t see it her way.

“That’s a disgusting thing to say, Carl. You should be ashamed of yourself!” she said in a voice that would make anyone shrink: all of the usual gentleness gone and replaced with sharp, cutting words. Furious, she got up from the table and took her plate, intending to walk back into the kitchen.

Carl just eyed her over the rims of his glasses with mild interest and Mrs Hudson noticed that he had soaked the hem of his cuff in the reddish-brown gravy. It reminded her of the dress shirt he had thrown in the laundry two days ago -- there had been blood on the hem and Carl had explained he had helped bandage his friend Harold’s finger when he had cut himself while gardening. She didn’t know why she linked these two observations, maybe it was all that murder business on the telly. Looking at Carl sent a chill down her spine and she felt the sudden, inexplicable urge to flee the room.

Mrs Hudson turned around and left the room, careful not to appear hurried. Just what was it that was wrong with her husband?

# 

II.

* * *

Weasels, or maybe rats. Although she wasn’t sure whether thinking of her husband and his lawyer in terms of rodents was derogative toward the animals. Mrs Hudson frowned at the television where the Grinch was going about his schemes. Maybe Grinch was more fitting than rat for the season since he had certainly managed to ruin it.

The rat (she decided to stick with rat since it was suitable all year long) and his hired weasel, a man who did anything for enough money were busying themselves with discrediting evidence, finding loopholes in legal procedures and mistakes during the trial. The weasel was clever and greedy and had no qualms getting a prosecuted murderer out of his rightful spot in death row over a misphrased question from the public prosecutor -- or district attorney, as they called it here.

It was shameful. Her own name was being dragged through the mud, the neighbours stared at her on the street and treated her as if she were a culprit too, not a victim. She wouldn’t have dreamt of this happening when she had moved here with Car -- _the rat_ \-- ten years ago. Enjoying retirement in sunny Florida; that had been the plan. These days, her enthusiasm for Florida was rather subdued.

But she refused to continue being victimized by that man. She didn’t care about her reputation, she just wanted to see him dead or at least behind bars for the rest of his sorry existence. Her sister had heard of a young man in London who was so clever that he could solve the most complicated crimes within days. Mrs Hudson had hesitated a bit to call him at first; who knew if he would even be willing to travel to Florida, how much money he would request for his services and he was said to be difficult to deal with, too. Calling had been the best thing she could have done. Sherlock Holmes -- what a funny name that was -- had first sounded snappish and bored, later intrigued and had astonished her at his willingness to take the next plane to Florida; it had been two days before Christmas, after all. Surely he wanted to spend it with his family? Sherlock Holmes had only snorted at that, asked for her address and hung up. Not twelve hours later, she had found a tall, pale young man on her doorstep who looked as if he could use a stone’s worth of Christmas biscuits and had introduced himself as Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

Speak of the devil, thought Mrs Hudson when the doorbell rang. Any visitor other than him was unlikely.

“Mrs Hudson, I’ve found enough evidence to ensure that your husband won’t draw his last breath as a free man”, he announced before she even had a chance to greet him.

She only blinked at the statement. “Really?”

“I wouldn’t be here, otherwise. The information is already in the hands of the correct people. Consider it dealt with.”

She couldn’t believe it. It was over? Sherlock Holmes looked so sure, it had to be true. The boy was always right, he had proven that more than once over the last three days. And despite only having known him for such a short time, she scooped him up in her arms and hugged him tight, her eyes welling with tears of relief.

“Oh, Sherlock Holmes, you wonderful boy!” she sobbed and kissed him on the cheek for good measure. 

The object of her affection had all but frozen under her hands and stared at her in utter confusion as to why anyone would hug him -- why anyone would _want_ to hug him. Mrs Hudson had seen through his abrasive demeanor right away. There was a lonely young man underneath who was sometimes too clever for his own good, too afraid to get close to people and fed a low self-esteem by proving himself cleverer than everyone else.

“And now you’ll come inside and have a cup of tea and some dinner with me. You could use a few extra calories, young man,” she scolded with a good-natured smile and ushered the dumbfounded Sherlock Holmes inside.

“But...”

“I won’t take ‘No’ for an answer, Sherlock Holmes. In you go.” Her tone indicated that she meant it.

For a brief moment, Sherlock seemed to consider arguing, his brows drawn together in a frown of confusion as if he wanted to ask why Mrs Hudson would want to have dinner with him. Mrs Hudson figured that the boy wasn’t used to invitations with a personality like his. But there was something underneath the cold shell, she had seen it. In the end, he just nodded and removed his jacket. If she ever got to meet his mother, she would give Mrs Holmes a piece of her mind regarding loving treatment of a child.

# 

III.

* * *

_Oh the weather outside is frightful,_  
But the fire is so delightful,  
And since we've no place to go,  
Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow 

Mrs Hudson hummed along with Dean Martin on the radio while she beat a copious amount of flour into the mixture of butter, eggs and sugar. A tray of gingerbread biscuits were already busy baking to a nice, inviting colour in the oven, filling the house with their delicious smell. Next on her list was Scottish shortbread, John’s favourites.

She couldn’t even remember the last time she had made this many biscuits for Christmas. Her late _ex_ -husband -- she greatly disliked acknowledging she ever had been foolish enough to be married to him for so long -- hadn’t appreciated biscuits much (maybe just her biscuits in particular, the spiteful, horrible man) and baking them just for herself seemed a bit silly.

But this year, this year was finally different. It felt like actual Christmas again. Not that the visits with her sister’s family had been bad for the past years, but Mrs Hudson had always felt a little out of place. The pitying looks from some relatives had bothered her. She didn’t need to be pitied -- she wasn’t suffering.

On the radio, the song changed to Louis Armstrong singing about Christmas in New Orleans. Mrs Hudson frowned, made a disapproving noise and walked over to the radio.

“I don’t think so, dear,” she said and switched to a different station. Mr. Armstrong was free to praise New Orleans at Christmas, but she really couldn’t agree with him on the topic. Christmas in New Orleans was quite dreadful.

Humming along with Ella Fitzgerald now, she removed the first tray from the oven and put the biscuits on a rack to cool down. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a dark mop of curls at her kitchen door.

“Sherlock, how nice of you to visit!” She beamed at him and dusted off her hands on her apron. It had been a birthday present from Sherlock and John; a long, purple apron made from fine cotton and embroidered with _“Not the housekeeper”_ in pink. She was quite taken with it.

“Just seeing how you are doing.” Sherlock swept into the kitchen in his usual dramatic fashion, eyes glued to the gingerbread biscuits on the table. More of an ‘just seeing how the biscuits are doing’, Mrs Hudson thought and smiled fondly. 

Sherlock might have horrible eating habits, thankfully improving due to John’s presence, but he did have a sweet tooth. If nothing else, you could always get a few biscuits or a pastry into him. Very similar to his brother, but he would bite her head off if she ever pointed it out to him.

“They’re just fresh out of the oven. Try one and tell me if they taste good.”

She didn’t have to ask twice. In fact, she had barely finished the sentence before Sherlock had popped one of them into his mouth, fingers already reaching for a second.

“Careful, dear. They’re still hot. What do you think?”

Sherlock smiled at her in genuine delight, which was enough for an answer. These smiles were so rare, she wanted to hug him every time he gave her one. But it would embarrass him, so she didn’t.

“Well, since you’re already here, you can help me with the next ones!”

“Shortbread, John’s favourite,” Sherlock deduced from the dough. “But how would I be of any assistance?”

Mrs Hudson put her hands on her hips. “Sherlock, have you never made Christmas biscuits before? When you were little?”

“No, should I have?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, dear. It’s about time then! You get yourself one of the aprons first. And call John downstairs, I’m sure he’d like to help with the shortbread!”

She used the cheerful no-nonsense tone even Sherlock wouldn’t argue with. That, and he likely figured his supply of gingerbread cookies would be cut off if he resisted. He grumbled, before yelling for John and then deciding to don the flower-print apron. It left a groaning John with a frilly, antique pink one. 

In her flour-dusted kitchen, Sherlock and John looked at each other in their aprons before bursting into laughter at the ridiculous image. Mrs Hudson giggled with them while she looked for biscuit cutters for the boys to use.

# 

IV.

* * *

“Oh, thank you, dear,” Mrs Hudson said and smiled at her niece Angela who had just handed her a cup of tea. 

She was back at her sister’s house in the countryside for Christmas. Not that this was a bad thing; she got along well with her sister and the rest of the family and the festivities were overall really pleasant -- nevertheless, Mrs Hudson couldn’t help but feel that this was a step back.

“It’s nice you’re celebrating with us again,” Angela said with a smile and went back to the kitchen to help her mother.

Nice it was, but Mrs Hudson couldn’t muster up more excitement than ‘nice’. She felt a bit guilty, other people didn’t even have a family to share Christmas with, or they had a family with whom they didn’t get along. And yet here she was, disgruntled over pitying looks from her relatives. Mrs Hudson appreciated the concern for her well being, but she was annoyed by their tendency to see her as a victim. They did that after the rat -- that horrible man didn’t deserve a name -- had been executed. She might be a victim of his lies and deception, but she was not a victim because of his execution. Ensuring that he died wasn’t something she would regret on her deathbed. Her family didn’t quite understand that, but she had figured long ago that not many people would see it her way.

Really, nice as it was, she should have stayed in London. The house felt a bit empty without violin music at three a.m., small explosions and John shouting at Sherlock for said explosions. Or for growing bacteria in the milk again. By any normal standards, the two had probably counted as horrible tenants with their body parts in the fridge, acid in the bathtub, drug busts because Sherlock had angered the nice detective inspector again, bullet holes in her walls or crime scene reenactments in the sitting room. But Mrs Hudson loved the boys and she still couldn’t believe they were gone -- Sherlock dead after the hateful witchhunt the press had unleashed on him and John too overwhelmed with sadness to stay in the flat. She hadn’t rented it out again so far -- couldn’t, actually. Mycroft Holmes had deposited the rent for a whole year in her account a short time after Sherlock’s funeral and while Mrs Hudson was grateful for the gesture, she would have smacked him across the head if he had turned up in person. He had access to mysterious black cars, secret services and top secret government files (after that incident with the Americans and the phone, Mrs Hudson had stopped believing that Sherlock’s brother was only a minor official) and yet hadn’t done a thing to save the boy from the media upheaval or that ghastly Moriarty character. Mycroft Holmes had poked and prodded around so much in Sherlock’s life but he wasn’t there when things took a turn for the worse? That was deserving of a smack across the head, government official or not.

She really should have stayed home; her sister had been talking to her and she hadn’t even noticed. Something about mulled wine. Mrs Hudson decided to smile and nod.

The nice girl from the morgue with the unfortunate crush on Sherlock -- Molly Hooper -- had stopped by her flat and asked if she would like to celebrate together, like last year. Last year’s Christmas had been nice with the party and the boys. She could have invited John, too. It had been a while since she had last seen him and Mrs Hudson missed him a lot. She hoped he would decide to move back one day. Until then, she would have to lure him back at regular intervals with tea, home-made shortbread biscuits and blueberry scones. Molly, John and her could have enjoyed those together in her sitting room with additional mulled wine -- John had prepared a remarkable one last year -- and chat for a bit. That sounded rather nice. She regretted declining Molly’s invitation; now there were three people unhappy with their Christmases. John didn’t get along with his family, Molly, it seemed, had nowhere to go and Mrs Hudson herself felt as if she were watching her own family from the outside with no sense of belonging.

As she placed her now empty tea cup on the coffee table, Mrs Hudson thought that while she couldn’t help the current situation, there was no reason why Molly, John and her couldn’t have their celebration after the actual holidays. That wouldn’t make it any less good. There had been a plan that she would stay for another three days, but she could make up a nice excuse to leave early.

Yes, tomorrow she would go back home, phone John and invite him for a small after-Christmas chat over a nice cuppa. And she would need to ask him for Molly Hooper’s number to invite her, too.

Sherlock had said that England would fall if Mrs Hudson left Baker Street -- and she couldn’t risk that by being away for too long, could she?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Knitting Lives Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/591956) by [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon)




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